Chapter 23
Anya Delemond
Exhaustion clung to Anya’s shoulders, threatening to pull her down to the deck. She’d finally made it through the day.
Another day without Roderick. Throughout the past few days, the crew needed input on more icebergs, bilge issues, headwind strategy and more.
She hadn’t realized exactly how much Roderick handled in her absence in the daytime.
She had to admit that, most nights, when she came topside, their course was perfectly on track, and the sails were in prime position.
Though his begrudgingly adequate sailing skills didn’t excuse his behavior. She’d tried to thank him, and he snapped at her. Heaven forbid she bite back, apparently.
The crew thought her kind for not wanting the lord disturbed, but she simply wanted to avoid him as long as possible.
If they asked him about matters of duty, he may come out, and she wasn’t ready to face him yet.
He’d turned her into a whimpering, hackle-raised mess for hours.
She was ashamed of herself—for thinking for even a moment he was anything but a cruel cur.
At least for the next few hours, she would be wrapped in the comforts of the constellations, charting their course with Blackbird.
She still got chills every time she emerged from the lower decks into the crisp evening air.
The stars at sea were truly unlike any other.
She was despondent when the vivid memories of the night sky faded over the last two months spent in Eteross.
The capital had so many towering structures and bright lights that choked out any semblance of the celestial, herself included.
A canyon of stars filled the dark expanse, plunging below the horizon like shining brush strokes falling off a midnight canvas.
She wanted to race down its curves and valleys, run her hands along its glittering walls.
Her eyes finally adjusted to the absence of light, bringing new awareness to each sparkling star.
Some pulsed with soft purple hues, melting into the background.
Others boasted clear points—burning their brightest before fading from the universe.
Will I join you one day? Anya thought. She rested her forearms on the bow, staring up at the stars as Blackbird prepared her quill and ink.
The stars made no reply, remaining the ever-present celestial sentry she cherished so much.
They would never yell, scream, or betray her—or threaten to replace her.
Princess or not, kingdom nor crown, she always had the heavens.
What comfort, what sweet sentence it was, knowing something was waiting for her even beyond this life.
No matter how this life turned out, she would be reborn under the same constellations that watched over her past.
She often pondered her past lives. Who she’d been.
How she’d died. If she had any at all. Her mother and father seemed to be ethereal mates; a tenet of the Divine Faith that spoke of a tie that bound two souls together beyond this earth.
When her father took ill, she would often feign sleep beside him, afraid to leave his side.
Do not leave me, Adrian, her mother once whispered, clinging to his hand. What if I cannot find you?
Then I will find you. You need only wait, her father answered in a hush. My Queen, my shepherd, my sweet Sarai. I will never be far from you.
Anya never asked what, or who, Sarai was.
From a young age, she was taught about all aspects of the Divine Faith.
The key teaching concerning ethereal mates was that the bond manifested physically in different ways for different people, and not everyone had an ethereal mate.
It was a blessing bestowed on those most selfless and brave; something to be discovered on one’s own.
“All set!” Blackbird sang, holding a scroll of parchment and quill at the ready.
Anya knelt and picked up the astrolabe. She was desperate to emblazon this nighttime tapestry into her mind for good. She hooked a claw through the patina-patched ring, holding it just beyond her nose. She adjusted the alidade bar to align with the silver dust of Cygnus, the swan.
“Alijanah,” Anya called out. Blackbird scratched the star name into the parchment, the sound nearly drowned out by the sloshing waves.
“Epsilon Cygni. Cygnus. Right ascension twenty hours, forty-six minutes.” She shifted her eyes to the left of the alidade.
“Left declination, thirty-three degrees north.”
Once the writing stopped, Anya moved the astrolabe to the head of the swan.
“Deneb.” She steadied herself on the rocking bow, realigning with the star.
She made quick work of such adjustments.
She could sense its position and only needed the astrolabe for the precise numbers.
“Alpha Cygni. Cygnus. Right ascension twenty hours, forty-one minutes. Left declination, forty-five degrees north.”
They continued to map Cygnus, adjusting their course ever so slightly along the way, sometimes only nudging the helm with a single claw.
They quickly finished Cygnus and moved down the swan’s tail to Pegasus.
Anya grazed on the snacks Blackbird so thoughtfully brought with, relishing the salty meat and buttery roll as she eyed the stars that made up the mane of the beast. Could there be more bliss than this?
She adjusted her sights onto Vulpecula, the little fox. The waxing gibbous moon fell closer to the west, a sign their night would be over soon. But there was time for one more constellation.
“T Vulpeculae,” Anya called. “Vulpecula. Right ascension, twenty hours, fifty-one minutes. Left declination, twenty-six—” She tightened her grip on the astrolabe ring, rubbing at the patina as she adjusted the alidade.
“Scratch that.” Blackbird scribbled over the number.
Anya swapped the astrolabe for her brass sextant, squinting up at the star to double check the degree.
A board creaked, and her eyes darted sideways to the stairs. Her pulse raced as Roderick strode up to the bow, a single hand skimming the baluster.
“Come to join our tea party?” Anya huffed, holding the sextant steady. She returned her eyes to Vulpecula. “Twenty-eight degrees north, Blackbird.”
Blackbird dipped her quill with a tink and jotted down the correct measurement.
Anya returned the sextant to the wooden crate. It was a fruitless attempt to keep tidy. Most of the contents were spread across the bow.
“I’ve come to fulfill my word.” Roderick turned to Blackbird.
“Lady Rowan.” He cleared his throat. Blackbird eyed him nervously from her seat on an upturned washbasin.
“I wanted to apologize for the comment I made about your salve. It was presumptuous and insensitive. Should you ever run out of it during our voyage, please see Ornella. I will personally pay to replenish her stores if you need a remedy, no questions asked.”
Anya lifted a brow. That apology was surprisingly authentic, not the choked-out regret she thought it would be.
Blackbird had a tender heart, but she was always willing to give second chances. Anya had experienced that forgiveness firsthand.
“I…I accept your apology, My Lord. Thank you.” Blackbird smiled up at Roderick, all sins forgiven.
“I know what we were doing that day must have looked odd, so I want to explain. Sometimes my hands get stiff and achy. Heat and pressure help, but I cannot apply the pressure myself when that happens.” She stared down at her hands.
“I am very blessed that Her Highness helps me, rubbing the ginger and turmeric salve into my hands, warm compresses, giving me leave, whatever I need.”
Anya waited for a snide remark from the lord that never came.
“I really made an ass of myself that day, didn’t I?” Roderick chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you for sharing that with me. I think I understand that feeling now. Your body or mind being out of your control.”
“Yes! Yes, that is exactly it! There are days I want to chop them off!”
“You’d be one hell of a scribe without them.” Anya chuckled.
Blackbird tossed her head back and laughed. A light clink drew all eyes to where an ink pot fell on its side. Thick black liquid pooled onto the lid of the crate, thankfully, and not their notes.
“Oops!” Blackbird rushed to set it right side up, then stared at her fingers, now streaked with ink. “I’ll be right back, My Lady. I need to scrub this off before it dries.”
With her raven hair and dark purple dress, Blackbird almost seemed to disappear into the shadow of the main mast—leaving Anya alone with Roderick. She turned her attention back to the astrolabe, desperately trying to ignore his gaze.
“I heard you working,” he said softly, stepping to her.
“Ah, you called it work. How flattering.” She adjusted the angle of the alidade, peering along the tarnished lever at the brightest star within Vulpecula.
“Anya.” Roderick stepped in front of her, placing a gentle hand on her wrist to lower the instrument.
Despite her anger, and the sudden, unbidden pang of fear she loathed, her cheeks still burned at his touch.
“What you are doing…it’s incredible. I mean that wholeheartedly.
I regret what I said. I regret it all. The way I treated you during the evacuation and the Council session…
” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Especially the other day.”
“I suppose I’ll hold off on the keelhauling. For now.”
Roderick exhaled. His shoulders relaxed. “That’s all I can ask for.” He chuckled weakly. “Though you’ll recall I’m a fair swimmer.”
Silence passed between them.
He wasn’t leaving. Why wasn’t he leaving? He’d said his piece. She agreed not to drag him behind the boat. What more did he want? A compliment?